Interstices
by Percie Jean
Summary: (One-shot Collection) No.8 - "You've got to find the person who's both your home and your adventure. That's when you'll know you've found the right one."
1. Rapport

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies_ belong to Disney and not to me.

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**A/N**: This is a collection of story snippets, character sketches, and missing scenes featuring a variety of main and ensemble characters from _Newsies_. All of the stories in this collection are set within the universe of Something Worth Winning, but most of them may be read as stand-alones without prior knowledge of that story (unless otherwise noted - all of the one-shots specifically dealing with SWW-related characters or situations with have their titles denoted by parenthesis).

Please note that these stories are not in chronological order; any important "scene setting" information will be given in an author's note at the beginning of the chapter.

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**No. 1**

**Title:** Rapport

**Summary**_: _As excitement for the strike grows, one newsboy harbors doubts...and comes to find that he's not alone.

**A/N:** This story interlocks with Henry's chapter of Kings and Kingdoms, if you're interested in reading a little more of this plot line.

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"Let's move it, fellas - we got newsies to visit!" Finch declared, springing off of the table as he and the rest of the eager newsboys filed out of the deli to the sound of Mr. Jacobi's mild grumbling.

Henry, at the back of the crowd, shoved his hands into his pockets. He kept his head down, not wanting to catch the eye of any of his fellow newsies, but most of them seemed too excited to even notice his reticence. As the crowd exited the deli and poured out into the street, most of the boys dispersed, heading off in all directions towards Harlem, Midtown, Queens…

Henry hadn't volunteered to go anywhere, so he merely turned the corner and began walking back towards the lodging house. He'd only gotten a few steps in that direction, however, when an unfamiliar voice called out to him.

"Hey!"

Henry turned in surprise to see the new kid - Davey - jog up to him.

"Sorry to stop you," he said, sounding a little embarrassed. "It's just - you, uh - you forgot your cap." He held it out to Henry.

"Thanks," Henry said, settling it back on top of his head. Lost in his brooding thoughts, he must have left it behind on the table at Jacobi's. He glanced up at the taller boy. "Davey, right?" He held out his hand.

Davey shook it, looking a little relieved that no spitting had been involved. "Yeah...that's me," he answered. "Sorry, I haven't learned everybody's name yet."

Henry introduced himself. "It'll take a while," he said. "It ain't easy to keep track of this bunch of bummers."

"Yeah, I guess not," Davey agreed. The conversation stalled awkwardly for a moment, and Henry was about to take his leave, when Davey suddenly spoke again.

"Hey, I noticed that you were pretty quiet back there," he said, gesturing over his shoulder at Jacobi's.

In fact, Henry had been silent since the moment Davey had first unwittingly proposed the strike.

"What of it?" Henry asked warily, half surprised that Davey had noticed, and half on his guard, unsure of what the other boy was going to say.

"Well…" Davey hesitated a minute before forging ahead, "I guess I just wanted to see if you had any concerns about the strike. I know this is all unfolding really quickly, and I'm sure there are a lot of things we haven't considered, so it would be helpful to know if...if there's something you've thought of that we've missed."

It wasn't the answer Henry had been expecting.

"My brother's one of the trolley workers who went on strike," he answered shortly, deciding to be direct. "Lots of his coworkers have been busted up real bad by the strikebreakers, and every day I worry he's gonna be the next one to be laid up."

Henry paused for a moment, allowing a frown to darken his face. "What Finchy said back there was true," he said, looking Davey in the eye. "We go on strike, and the cops'll come after us for sure. " Shaking his head, he added fiercely, "It ain't no game, goin' up against _The_ _World_ like we're talkin' about!"

To Henry's surprise, Davey didn't back down from the intensity, but answered it with his own.

"I know," he said quietly.

The fervent conviction in his voice took Henry aback. He'd initially pegged Davey as privileged, sheltered, and somewhat naive - book-smart, perhaps, but ignorant when it came to understanding the consequences of undertaking something as serious as a strike...but just now he'd spoken like someone who actually knew what was at stake.

"My dad was in an accident at work a few days ago," Davey said, breaking into Henry's thoughts. "It messed up his leg really badly. He's out of work now because he didn't have a union to protect him the way the trolley workers did."

Henry was silent. He knew that Jack had said something about Davey's father back at the distribution center, but he hadn't bothered to wonder much about what it had meant.

"I know what we're doing could be dangerous," Davey continued quietly. "And I know what it's like to worry about a brother." He paused, his voice suddenly hitching a little. "I honestly don't even know if what we're doing is the right thing...but I don't know what else we _can_ do!" He gave Henry an imploring look, as if pleading with him to understand.

Davey was conflicted. Truly conflicted. More conflicted than he'd let on.

Henry wrestled with his thoughts. As much as he hated the prospect of going on strike, the other boy was right: what else could they do? If they didn't stand up for their rights now while they still could, they'd be pushed aside little by little, and then eventually tossed to the curb, the way Davey's father had been. Striking would be dangerous, and the outcome dubious...but the alternative was far more bleak.

"Look, I understand if you can't get behind the strike, with what's going on with your brother and everything," Davey said, speaking again. "I just…" he took a deep breath, as if trying to dispel the tension in his shoulders before continuing. "I just hope you know that I've thought about the consequences, and that I'm not trying to rush us into this blindly. I know it won't be easy."

The entreating look was there again, and Henry found himself responding.

"Well, we've got no choice but to see it through," he said slowly. "I ain't gonna pretend that I like it...but I know you're right." Davey glanced up in surprise as Henry added staunchly, "And, for the record, I'm behind you, too."

The other boy's anxiousness melted into a look of surprised relief. This time, Davey didn't say anything in response...but in the grateful nod he gave Henry there was a tacit acknowledgement of what this declaration of support had meant.

They stood on opposite sides of a divide, Henry dreading the consequences union affiliation could have on his brother, and Davey desperate for the justice that had been denied his non-union father - but they were both afraid. And it was this fear that allowed them to share an unspoken understanding as brothers and sons who felt the weight of responsibility bearing down on them - silent, heavy...and wholly unknown by the other newsies who no longer had ties to family.

Perhaps, Henry reflected, he and Davey weren't so very different after all.

The sudden sound of raucous laughter reached their ears, and both boys turned to see Les and Race emerge from Jacobi's, the former chattering animatedly while the latter looked on in indulgent amusement.

Davey gave Henry an apologetic look. "Sorry," he said, "I've got to get my brother home. Our folks will be waiting."

Henry nodded his understanding. "Then I'll see ya tomorrow at the circulation gate," he said, sticking out his hand. Davey shook it and gave him another grateful smile, then turned away, calling out for Les as he hurried back the way he'd come.

Henry watched him go for a moment, then continued walking, slowly and thoughtfully, in the direction of the lodging house.

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**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought.


	2. Rationale

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies _belong to Disney and not to me.

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**No. 2**

**Title: **Rationale

**Summary:** It was easy to forget that scabs had names and stories and reasons for crossing the picket line.

**A/N**: This short sketch is told from the perspectives of the three scabs who are persuaded by Jack, Davey, and the other newsies to join the strike during "Seize the Day."

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_**I. Jesse**_

Jack Kelly could definitely talk a good game.

I'd heard about him - heard he was a bit of a hot-head, a bit of a smooth-talker, and that he kept Lower Manhattan in check with his charisma and a few loyal accomplices. I could see it playing out in front of my eyes as he stood appealing to the scabs, his band of boys tense and on edge behind him. They outnumbered us easily three to one, but I wasn't afraid of them. Word on the street was that Manhattan talked a good game...but they weren't Brooklyn.

I'd been hawking headlines for a while, all over New York - no ties to anyone or anywhere, just selling wherever the prices were lowest and the papes were moving: in Queens one week, Staten Island the next, then over to the Bronx for a spell...everywhere except Brooklyn. It worked better when I didn't stay in one area too long, because then folks weren't used to seeing me, and the tricks I used to sell the headlines never got old.

I was on my way down to Manhattan when I first got wind of the strike.

It turned out to be a lucky break - the newsies weren't selling, which meant I could step into the gap and make some extra dough - and scabbing, it turned out, paid pretty well. _The World_ had stopped printing the afternoon edition when I arrived, so there wasn't much for me to sell that day, but the manager at the distribution center promised me a full stack of the morning edition the next day, as well as a generous bonus for my trouble, since there was a chance the striking newsies would retaliate against anyone showing up to cross the picket line.

The next morning, sure enough, there they were, all bunched together in a defiant group, shouting in outrage as we brushed past them to get our papes. The newsies began to rush us, and I braced myself for a fight, but surprisingly, their charge was quickly halted. And that was when Jack Kelly began his speech.

I didn't expect to be moved by it...but I was. As soon as he brought up the kids - the kids who should have been outside playing or going to school but were stuck slaving away for mere pennies, pennies that weren't enough to even keep them off the street - I knew I had no chance of crossing that picket line with my papes.

I had no ties to anyone, not anymore. But not too long ago, I had - ties that had been broken when an accident claimed the lives of two breaker boys barely old enough to master a game of Jackstraws or marbles let alone lose their lives trying to scrape together enough money to survive.

_For the sake of all the kids…_

The words of Jack's appeal settled like a weight upon my shoulders. And then the smallest newsboy, barely more than a kid himself, stepped forward.

"Please…" he added.

And I knew then that I was done.

But I wasn't going to break down. I strode confidently up to Jack, staring him down for a moment, bold and unflinching. Then I cried out, "I'm with ya!"

My stack of papers hit the ground with a loud thud of finality...and I left them there without looking back as I went to join the newsies.

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_**II. Tucker**_

Words didn't convince me.

Words were just words. Anyone could say them - what I cared about was who _meant_ them.

So I didn't really listen to the speech of the blustering newsboy in the blue shirt. He was passionate, I'd give him that. Passionate and angry - and scared. But anyone could say anything when they were angry and scared; I knew that well enough. So his words meant nothing to me.

And when the taller one confronted me, deliberate but equally forceful, I didn't so much listen as look. I didn't care what he had to say, either. I wanted to figure out if he _meant_ it, because I wasn't going to throw away a day's pay plus a little extra for just a bunch of words.

I wanted to see sincerity. And trustworthiness. And when you were trying to parse that out in a fella, you didn't listen to their words. You looked at their eyes. And you watched their hands.

So he spoke, and I scrutinized him, trying to find deceit in his expression, shiftiness in his gestures, manipulation behind his words...

I expected to. I wanted to.

I _really_ wanted to.

But I couldn't.

So I started cautiously listening.

And as I listened, I weighed his words against the ones that had been spoken by the weasel-like manager of the distribution center. The man had promised me and the other scabs a bonus - and a generous one - if we completed the job. But would he actually keep his promise? And would his fidgety henchmen with their bold stares and brass knuckles, actually back us up if it came to a brawl? Or would they leave us to fend for ourselves?

At the end of the day...who was I going to trust?

I looked over my shoulder at the distribution center employees.

I looked at the newsie in front of me.

I looked at the band of boys behind him.

And then I made my decision and threw down my papes.

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_**III. Artie**_

My father hadn't been joking when he'd said he'd kill me if I didn't come back with the money. The newsies seemed to think that it was some kind of exaggeration, but it wasn't. Of course, Pa had been drunk when he'd said it, and even sober, it was doubtful he'd be able to follow through on the threat - but that didn't mean there wasn't a little truth hidden in those words.

I knew I couldn't go home without the money.

Not that home was great to begin with - it was a place to stay at night, not really much else. But it was all I knew, and Ma and Jo were there, so I planned on going back...eventually. Once I got the money.

I thought that scabbing would be the way back - it paid well, and I could sell papes as easily as the next fella, so it made sense to throw in my lot with the distribution center employees - but I hadn't expected the striking newsies to show up in protest, and I hadn't expected the other two scabs to turn tail so quickly.

What choice did I have? Stay the course and get soaked for my troubles, maybe soaked so bad that I wouldn't be able to sell papes for the next few days? Or join up and see if I could find another way to come up with the money?

It was a lose-lose situation, and in the heat of the moment, with the newsies and the ex-scabs breathing down my neck, I did the only thing I knew to do - and gave in.

I knew that I wouldn't be able to go home now. Not without the money. But I'd figure something out. And in the meantime, I'd see what kind of family I could find among the Lower Manhattan newsies.

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**A/N: **In the narrative of Something Worth Winning, the first scab, Jesse, ends up disappearing after the brawl at the distribution center, but Tucker and Artie elect to stay with the newsies, and both will have a part to play in the story as it progresses. Thank you for reading this; please let me know what you thought! The scabs don't get much stage time in the musical because they're basically there to move the plot along, but I thought it could be interesting to try to think about what might've been going through their heads during "Seize the Day." :)


	3. Respite

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies _belong to Disney and not to me.

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**No. 3**

**Title: **Respite

**Summary: **Taking stock of the small victories was the only way he got through the day sometimes.

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The first small victory was generally getting out of bed. The morning bell would chime, clear and high and incessant, and he would be tempted, oh so tempted, to simply tuck his head under his arm and close his eyes again, to grasp for the last few vestiges of sleep and to ignore the impending reality. Getting up meant committing to the day, and some days, he wasn't ready to do that yet.

But each morning he got up, dressed, and waded into the chaos that was the lodging house washroom. The cheerful grousing for toiletries, the good-natured heckling of those who - miracle of miracles, actually _were_ morning people - and the general push-and-shove sometimes grated, and the constant slamming of the lavatory doors could put him on edge if he was especially tired, but he tried to wash the weariness away and comb civility into place as he fought for a space at the sink. Surviving the washroom rush in the morning was always a small victory.

Sometimes, the younger newsies helped; it was hard to stay irritable when Romeo was chattering away about the dream he had or Buttons was trying to tell him the latest joke he'd come up with while laying in bed the night before when he really should have been sleeping. They loved him, and he knew it, and sometimes that was enough to carry him through the day.

But other days, it wasn't enough. He'd arrive at the circulation gate with the rest of the boys, jostling and joking and channeling his energy into hounding Weasel like the others, but as soon as the stack of papes hit his hands, the weariness was back. He'd scan the headlines, years of experience spinning sensation and scandal from even the most humdrum of the bunch as his mind instinctively turned the words just as the words would turn a profit...but even as he was strategizing, he was listening, too, listening to the boys around him, taking in their excitement, their dismay, and the feelings that lay beneath what was spoken, the worries that went unsaid.

He knew he wasn't the only one who did this. He saw the same awareness in the faces of a few - Henry, Davey, Specs - circumspect, attentive, and always-listening, silently watchful, quietly burdened, perpetually musing, though each of them carried it differently, and none of them spoke about it. Sometimes, though, one of them would catch his eye, and something glimmered there before both of them looked away and went about their business. It wasn't a victory. But eased the isolation just a little.

Selling papes wasn't hard, but each pape sold, as easy as he made it appear, was a small victory in and of itself. Each pape he moved got him closer to the end of another day. Each penny in his pocket was tangible proof of progress, a shiny little bit of hope that he could hide away, believing that if one day he could finally amass enough, he could leave behind the burden he carried, maybe for good. Some days that dream seemed so close that he could touch it; most days he knew it was too vaguely ambiguous to be real.

So he turned his focus back to the small victories.

He ate at Jacobi's often, because he'd learned the hard way that if he didn't eat, he got tired quicker, or was more prone to sickness, or had an even shorter fuse than normal at the end of the day, so he ate, not just for himself, but for the others, and he told himself this strengthening was a victory, too.

Another round of papes, another several hours of walking the city, putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, another penny, another little victory…

Sometimes he had it in him to stop and help one of the younger newsies who was struggling to move his papes. Sometimes he didn't, and kept walking. Sometimes, he'd toss out a free copy of _The World_ to the bums he saw along his route. Sometimes he simply ignored them, not because he didn't see them, but because it only added to his burden to know that they were homeless and hungry and that his pape wasn't really doing much for them in the long run. Sometimes he could reach outside of himself to ease the load of someone else's burden, but often it was all he could do to just carry the weight of his own. But either way, it wasn't easy, and he'd come to count each end result as a small victory in its own way, because if you did not count the small victories, then the day could too easily go down as a defeat, and while that may have been accurate on occasion, it was rarely helpful.

(He hadn't managed to free himself of the burden - at least, not yet - but he _had_ learned along the way how to carry it better.)

And so the day passed, and he took these tiny moments of respite and of re-orientation to anchor himself amidst the chaos. They made him stand a little straighter, walk a little quicker, and smile a little more, and he suspected that his brothers knew, and loved him for (in spite of) it. They knew that he strengthened himself so that he could be strong for them. He met the day so that they too could see that there was something worth getting up for, even if it was only to put one foot in front of the other, one step at a time. And he reminded them, in example if not in words, that each day finished was a small victory...

...because it truly was.


	4. Relucent

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies _belong to Disney and not to me.

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**No. 4 **

**Title: **Relucent

**Summary:** Jack sketched when he was happy and painted when he was sad and sometimes it was the reverse and sometimes it wasn't either of those things at all.

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**I.** He couldn't remember when he'd started sketching. His drawings had always been a part of his life, a scribble on a scrap of paper, a detail dashed off in a moment stolen away when he should have been working but _ached_ to create instead - dozens and dozens of sketches of anything and everything: the face of his brother, caught in mid-grin, the ships drifting in off the harbor, an apple he'd pilfered from the grocer's stand…anything and everything, he'd draw it and try to catch a bit of its light beneath his dirt-smudged fingers.

**II.** But not all is light, and he learns this soon enough, learns it in a place where the darkness drowns. He keeps on sketching...but shadows now press in against the light.

**III.** The first time he puts paint to canvas, it is dark - dark in the theater, and dark within. He fumbles his way through dimly-lit backstage corridors, makes his way towards the single spotlight shining on stage. There sit the canvas and drop cloth, exactly where Miss Medda said they would be. She'd seen his sketches - his tiny scraps of light and shadow - and had suggested that he try, of all things, _painting_. She had a backdrop that needed rendering for a show later that week; he could use the paints and brushes already there if he wanted. He'd shrugged off the idea at first, too morose to care. But when she'd pressed him again, letting him know that she'd leave the light on before she locked up and left for the night, a tiny spark of interest had flared to life and refused to let him rest, so instead of trying to sleep, he'd headed for the stage. Now, as he hesitantly picks up a brush and pries open the lid of the nearest paint can, he feels a glimmer of hope grow inside him.

**IV.** His stub of a pencil dashes lightly across the page, and he feels light, too, as form and figure emerge beneath his fingers, all softness and brilliance and half-lidded gaze. She is lovely and cannot be captured by even his quickest attempts, but he manages to keep just a bit of her there on the paper, smudging out gentle curves, stippling freckles, blending beauty by turns 'till the newsprint (expendable, coarse and commonplace) is illuminated with _her_. And there's light in his eyes too, playful and roguish and all sorts of _impossible_ as he sets the sketch down on the chair and meets her questioning look for just a moment before ducking quickly out of sight.

**V.** The picture comes to him almost instantly as he paints in broad strokes, everything bold and dark and heavy and _crushing,_ and he wishes that somehow the largeness of the image taking form could drown out the memories and the screams in his head that haunt him. He is insignificant and small and powerless and he _knows it_, knows that he - and the ones struggling beneath the descending weight - are doomed to have their light snuffed out, their voices silenced. He's a professional word-monger...but tonight words fail him, and all he can do is pour his anguish onto the canvas.

**VI.** The palette smears are like bruises, mottled purples and blues. He dabs at them angrily, blending until the colors bleed out and he finds the perfect shade of mauve where sky and summit meet, tranquil and serene in mocking juxtaposition to the turbulence within - darkness waiting, darkness calling. Just as he's about to press paint to picture, a voice - then several - break through the shadows.

He does not want to hear them at first. He wants to _paint, _to disappear, to stay within the world of shadow because it's his only way of escape and reality has wearied him to near-despair. But the voices call with increasing persistence, incisive and passionate and innocent and so full of hope that his hands are shaking as he tries again to paint. He does not want to hear them.

But finally...he does. And slowly, slowly, something flares to life inside of him again. It's not the kind of light that drives out darkness, a beacon blazing-strong and bright, not the kind of light he'd thought he was or that he'd hoped to be. But maybe it's enough, just enough…and so he sets his palette down and steps towards them, a tiny flicker turning towards the light and holding out against the darkness - the darkness that has yet to overcome.

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**A/N:** Art as therapy/self-expression/stress relief is something I know a few of us have been taking part in lately, and it made me think of how Jack might have used his "natural aptitude" as a way of dealing with the hardships he faced. Several of the scenes depicted above are meant to correspond with specific pieces of art Jack creates in the musical (the backdrops for Medda, the sketch of Katherine, the cartoon of Pulitzer's foot crushing the newsies, etc.). Also kind of playing around with the idea that art can provide a much-needed outlet in times of crisis, but that at the end of the day we also need each other to persevere and endure when times are tough.

Thanks for reading; please let me know what you thought of this!


	5. Rivalry

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies _belong to Disney and not to me.

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**No. 5**

**Title**: Rivalry

**Summary:** It was far too late in the evening to think about going to bed and far too early in the morning to be going to work, so Bill suggested taking a walk instead, and Darcy agreed.

**A/N**: Here we have a little "missing scene" featuring Katherine's blue-blooded friends who don't get quite enough stage time in the musical. This one-shot takes place after the newsies disperse to distribute _The Newsies Banner_ all across the city. It fits in between Chapters 48 and 49 of Something Worth Winning if you're following along with that story (though you'll be able to still understand this even if you aren't). Hope you enjoy it!

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Bill Hearst was the kind of young man who preferred to make the best of things. There was no reason to sulk and stew when life had dealt him a rather good hand as a whole: he was bright, amiable, and well-liked, the heir to a newspaper empire who had already begun plying the family trade in a way that showed both precision and promise and had garnered him praise from more than one quarter. It didn't hurt that he was also at the advantageous age of one and twenty, young enough where the expectations of adulthood had not fully descended, but not so young as to be discounted simply because of his relative lack of years. As such, he enjoyed the universal respect and admiration that generally comes to those who are young, driven, and attached to a particularly well-off family, and this - along with a naturally agreeable disposition - was why he did not often find himself derailed by the little inconveniences of life.

Suffice to say, Bill Hearst was not in the least bit troubled when he finally finished cleaning and oiling the printing press in the basement of _The World _and pulled out his pocket watch to find that it was the rather inconvenient hour of four-thirty in the morning. The newsies had dispersed long ago on their mission to muster the rest of the city's young workforce, and this had left Darcy and Bill alone in the basement of _The World_ to finish cleaning up.

The two of them had worked slowly and carefully, attending to the printing press, picking up the papers that had been dropped, and putting everything back in its proper place. Pulitzer was likely to find out that they'd been in his basement even if they didn't leave behind any evidence of their visit that night, but their upbringing didn't allow for them to simply leave the place a mess, so they stayed until they'd put everything to rights, leaving the basement in better shape than they'd found it, though doing so had taken them the better part of an hour.

"Too late to make it back to Lincoln Square," Darcy yawned, glancing at his own pocket watch and noting the time. Bill nodded in agreement. It would take him over an hour and a half to return to his home on foot, and there was no point in that when his office at _The Journal_ was just down the street from the very building they were occupying at the present.

"What do you say we take a stroll, Darcy?" he suggested cheerfully. "It's too late to go to bed and too early to go to work, so we might as well make the best of it! You and Katherine see each other all the time, but I can hardly get away to catch either of you now, and the weather's nice tonight."

Darcy readily agreed (though he looked completely bushed, Bill noted with amusement); he was never the type to say no, and tonight was no exception.

After locking up the basement, the two of them walked around to the front of the building and dropped the keys into the mail slot as they'd been instructed to do, then made their way down the steps of _The World_ to the darkened street. Newspaper Row was completely deserted, its array of imposing buildings silent and dark, and Bill found it to be an oddly beautiful sight as he took in the always-busy swath of lower Manhattan at rest beneath the moon's silvery glow.

"So, what did you think of Katherine's new company?" he asked casually as he and Darcy began ambling southward. "I didn't realize she'd struck up such a close acquaintance with the newsboys whose story she was covering, but I don't know half of the things she's up to anyway. You probably saw it coming since you talk to her more often."

"I had no idea," Darcy answered, surprising Bill with his shortness.

"You sound a little out-of-sorts, friend."

Darcy grimaced. "I don't understand how they've managed to get so chummy with her. It's been what, two weeks?"

"Almost."

"We've known her for _years,_ Bill!" Darcy let out a sound of exasperation. "That should count for something!"

Bill had a pretty good idea of what his friend was actually getting at, but Darcy - true to form - was talking _around_ the issue rather than addressing it head-on.

"You're not actually worried about Katherine taking up with them, are you?" he asked, trying to prod Darcy into straight-shooting. "She's not going to suddenly drop us because she's decided that scruffy friends are more her style!"

"I wouldn't be so sure of that."

"Oh come _on_, Darcy!" Bill laughed incredulously. "You got nothing to worry about! Katherine's loyal - she's stuck with us all these years. _I'm_ the one who should be worried; I hardly ever see her now with business being so busy and Father always after me to take care of this or that. Before she contacted me yesterday about assisting with the printing, we hadn't spoken in months! If either of us is going to be on the chopping block, it's me, not you."

Darcy gave a little smile, acknowledging the reassurance, but his expression remained pensive.

"Darce…" Bill stopped, putting a hand on his companion's shoulder. "You're making this a bigger deal than it needs to be, all right? I'd be willing to bet that Katherine's heart is big enough to hold both her newsie friends and a couple of blue-blooded swells like us." He gave the other young man a pat on the back, then kept walking.

"It's not just that," Darcy said, hurrying a few steps to catch up. "I'm concerned about her safety. Newsboys aren't the most reputable company to be hanging around with."

"That's true," Bill acknowledged. "But this bunch seemed civil enough."

"Most of them," Darcy muttered.

Bill grinned. "You didn't care much for Jack, did you?"

"I'm not sure why anyone would," Darcy answered petulantly.

"Well, he got this whole strike started, didn't he?" Bill pointed out. "It's what gave Katherine her big break. She's always been passionate about her job."

"There's nothing wrong with her being passionate about her _job_," Darcy grumbled, the rest of the implication going unsaid.

Bill shook his head, amazed at his friend's insistence on taking a pessimistic view of things. Did preserving the class divide really matter to Darcy so much? Did he really feel that Katherine's reputation or her safety could be in danger due to her association with the newsboys?

"I know that rubbing elbows with the working class isn't exactly our _modus operandi_, Darce," he conceded. "But this is a different kind of scenario. Fighting against a common enemy has a way of drawing people together." He gave his friend a grin. "Don't tell me you've forgotten about how Katherine brought the three of us together to challenge the foe of insufferable boredom at the mayor's party however many years ago!"

Darcy chuckled a little bit. "Ah, yes - the bonbon incident. I hadn't forgotten."

Bill grinned. "You see? That's all this is - just Katherine doing what she does best! You don't have to worry about the newsies, Darcy. Katherine's not going to run out of time for us. Our friendship isn't going anywhere."

Darcy was silent for a moment, and Bill was about to congratulate himself for having assuaged his companion's fears when the young man beside him spoke up softly.

"That's just the problem. It's not only her friendship I'm after."

Bill glanced over sharply, taken aback by the candid disclosure. "Wait, Darcy...you don't mean…?" Suddenly, everything was beginning to make sense.

"That's why I don't understand why - _how_ \- an upstart newsie without a nickel to his name can best me, someone who's been been by her side for _years_ \- "

"Woah, hold on, Darcy!" Bill cut in. "No one's bested anyone yet. You're jumping to conclusions!"

"Tell me you didn't see something going between them, Bill!" Darcy challenged. "Tell me you didn't see the way he looked at her, and the way she was looking at him!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Bill insisted. "All I saw was a group of determined folks excited to see their paper finally printed and ready to distribute!"

"That's because you don't care about Katherine the way I do!" Darcy exclaimed. "You don't see it because you don't _need_ to see it! You're perfectly happy as her friend, so you can make room for the newsies too, because they're not challenging you in any way, not threatening something you've wanted and hoped for _for years_!"

Bill fell silent, not sure of what to say in response to that.

Darcy shook his head. "I should have known it never would have worked between us," he said, his brief show of vehemence dissolving into dejection. "Katherine's never wanted anything more than a friendship with me. I just never thought it would be a newsboy who would finally force me to see the truth."

"Hey, it's not over yet," Bill contended, trying to be optimistic for his friend's sake. "Unless there's already some kind of understanding between them, she isn't spoken for."

Darcy smiled grimly. "I'm pretty sure she is, Bill, even if they haven't said so."

"Give yourself a little more credit, Darce." Bill clapped his companion on the shoulder. "Like you said, you've been by Katherine's side for years. Maybe Jack's caught her fancy for a bit because he's new and exciting, but realistically, he doesn't have the means to take care of her the way you do. And they've only just met - she really can't know him all that well, not the way she knows you."

"And not the way I know her," Darcy agreed, sounding wistful. "But somehow, I'm not sure that that really matters."

"Well, you won't know until you clear the air," Bill suggested sensibly. "Why not take this as an incentive to tell Katherine about your feelings? You said you've been waiting for years. That's a long time to carry a torch for someone, even someone as winning as Katherine. You might as well just have out with it so you can know for sure where you stand. Who knows, you might be pleasantly surprised at her response!"

"That's your optimism talking, Bill," Darcy sighed.

Bill shrugged. "Generally, it doesn't steer me wrong."

Darcy didn't say anything in reply, and Bill didn't have any further advice to offer, so they walked on in silence for another moment or two. Eventually, Darcy turned the conversation to other topics, and Bill let him take the lead, knowing that once Darcy's mind was made up about a matter, there was little that could be done to change it.

Night faded into day, and they came within clear sight of the Brooklyn Bridge's majestic towers overlooking the East River.

"I guess we'd better turn back soon," Bill remarked, checking his pocket watch. "The city will be up before we know it."

Darcy nodded in agreement. "And she's going to be in for a rude awakening when she does," he predicted. "If the newsies have accomplished their goal and the rest of the city's working kids are on board, it's going to be hard for anyone to go anywhere or do anything today."

"It's fortunate we've got our own two feet to take us to work, then!" Bill declared jovially. "And we'll have a first-rate view of whatever unfolds today in front of _The World_."

Darcy shook his head. "There you go again with that optimism."

"Sometimes you have to just make the best of things, Darce." Bill grinned, inclining his head in the direction from which they'd come.

Darcy managed a small smile in return, and together, the two of them turned their footsteps in the direction of Newspaper Row.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought of Darcy and Bill's exchange.


	6. Recognition

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies _belong to Disney and not to me.

* * *

**No. 6**

**Title: **Recognition

**Summary**: Finch was the first one to discover Crutchie's unusual gift.

**A/N: **This story takes place some time before the strike.

* * *

Finch grumbled to himself as he slogged his way through the water puddling in the street, making his way home to the lodging house under the steadily-drumming rain.

The downpour had come out of nowhere and had thoroughly soaked his remaining copies of _The World_ despite his attempts to protect them, and the newsprint was now unreadable, the ink already beginning to run in rivulets over his hands and down onto his trousers.

Finch tossed the sodden heap into a garbage bin as he passed; there was no point in keeping it. It hurt to throw away his unsold wares, but he'd have to cut his losses for the day; the weather had once again gotten the better of him, and it didn't look like the storm was going to let up any time soon.

He'd taken his chances that morning at the circulation window, counting on the gray skies to eventually clear, but instead they'd steadily darkened as the day went on, and as quick as Finch had been at selling his papes, he hadn't been quick enough to sell them all before the rain had arrived, and he'd paid for that mistake - literally.

For all of his assertions that he liked "livin' chancy," there were actually very few aspects of Finch's life that lined up with that sentiment. He didn't have a favorite selling spot like some of the other newsies did, but he had a rotation of places he would stake out on a regular basis, and he rarely deviated from that lineup unless something unusual happened. He took his lunch at the same time every day - at a quarter 'till noon - either at Jacobi's (where, if he had the money, he'd invariable order a Reuben sandwich) or on the same bench in Newsie Square where he'd meet up with Sniper for a slingshot contest after they'd finished eating whatever lunch they'd managed to scrounge up. Finch paid for his lodging house fees on the same day of the week (Tuesday) in the morning before he left to sell for the day. And he was one of the few boys who routinely made his bed, pulling his blanket over the mattress each morning (the other boys were less likely to steal it if it wasn't lying on the floor in a heap) and hanging his cap and vest in the same corner of the bunk bed each night (they were easier to locate this way in the midst of the chaos that was a typical morning at the lodging house).

Finch liked things to be predictable - not because uncertainty was frightening, but because it was _inconvenient. _So he did his best to manage as many aspects of his life as possible, and in general, it worked.

The one thing he couldn't predict, however, was the weather. And if there was one thing Finch really disliked, it was being rained on without being prepared for it.

The other newsies didn't seem to mind, taking the variability of the elements in stride and finding ways to joke about the days that started out sweltering hot and ended up bitingly cold with showers of rain falling intermittently in between, but the changing conditions were no laughing matter to Finch, who regularly pointed out that the rain diminished selling prospects significantly and that if he had _known_ that a shower was predicted, he would have purchased far fewer papers at the circulation window that morning.

Today was another one of those days.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Finch ducked his head, focusing on the slippery sidewalk and trying to avoid the biggest puddles as best as he could as he made his way towards Duane Street. The rest of the newsies were probably heading to Jacobi's to wait out the rain before heading home, but the thought of sitting in sodden clothes for possibly several hours didn't appeal to Finch, and he was in too sour of a mood to really want company anyway.

By the time the lodging house came into view, Finch's socks were squishing in his boots and the rain was leaking through his now-soaked cap onto his face and he looked much less like the excitable and energetic bird of his moniker and more like a half-drowned gutter rat.

He pushed open the door of the lodging house, glad to be finally out of the downpour, and quickly took off his shoes and socks, carrying them upstairs to the bunk room in an attempt not to track water all over the floor, though he realized about halfway up the stairs that his dripping clothes were probably negating the effort.

Reaching the landing, he padded over to the bunk room and was about to set his things down and strip off his wet clothing, when he suddenly realized that he wasn't alone.

The new boy was there, lying on his bunk bed, his crutch propped up beside him. He raised his hand in greeting, looking composed and content and - Finch noted with a twinge of envy - completely _dry._

"Heya, Crutchie," he said, nodding to the other newsie. "You finish sellin' for the day?"

"Yup," the other boy beamed with a sunny smile that might have had a hint of a smirk in it. "Sold my last pape and then made it here just before it started raining." _Unlike you, _was the good-natured, unspoken sentiment.

"How'd ya manage that?" Finch asked, pulling off his cap and running a hand through his damp hair. "That storm came outta nowhere."

Crutchie shrugged. "I knew it was gonna rain."

_Hold on...what? _

"You _knew_ it was gonna rain?" Finch sputtered. "But...how?"

"My leg tells me," Crutchie answered. "I don't know how, it just feels different - gets a little more stiff, a little more achy. Any time I get that feelin', I know we's in for rain soon. Works like a charm." He grinned.

Finch stared at him in amazement. "You's a walkin' goldmine," he said, almost reverently. "That leg of yours could save a bunch of us a nice chunk of change at the circulation window if we knew what kinda weather was comin' before we purchased our papes. We oughta bottle ya."

"Or you could just ask me whenever you ain't sure," Crutchie suggested reasonably.

"Yeah...or that," Finch agreed. He was still amazed at the thought that something as seemingly disadvantageous as a crippled leg could also be so surprisingly useful. He didn't know Crutchie well - the newest member of the lodging house had only been around for about a week and a half - but from what Finch had seen, the other boy seemed to have a settledness about him, and he wondered if that came from being able to find the good even a difficult situation - or in this case, the silver lining in the storm clouds.

* * *

A week later, Finch was waiting by the circulation gate, hands in his pockets as he fiddled with the change that he hadn't yet used to buy his morning allotment of papers. The skies overhead were only slightly overcast and didn't seem to be threatening rain, but Finch didn't want to chance it until he'd gotten the definitive forecast.

"What's your leg say, Crutchie?" he asked eagerly as the other newsie came limping up to the circulation gate with Jack and a few of the other boys behind him. "We in for a shower?"

Crutchie paused thoughtfully, considering his leg for a moment, then declared, "Nope, we's good! Nothin' but a little gloom to start the day, but after that clear skies 'till evenin'!"

Finch let out a little whoop. "Gonna be a great day of sellin', then," he predicted. "The headline ain't half bad, and if we's gonna have nice weather, the papes'll be sellin' like hotcakes!" He clapped Crutchie on the back, and the group of newsies made their way to the circulation window, lining up to purchase their papers for the day.

* * *

**A/N**: If I haven't mentioned it before (I probably have), Finch is one of my favorite ensemble newsies. He's got some really great one-liners. Hope you liked this little "missing scene" - please let me know what you thought of it!


	7. Relation

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-commercial work of fanfiction. Any recognizable characters and situations from _Newsies _belong to Disney and not to me.

* * *

**No. 7**

**Title: **Relation

**Summary**: The marks they left were indelible, even if the memories were faint.

**A/N:** This is a collection of drabbles (each exactly 100 words) sharing the common theme of mothers or motherhood, though each drabble is told from the perspective of a different speaker and should be read as a stand-alone. Those of you who know my writing style know that brevity is more of a challenge to me than anything, so this is definitely out of my wheelhouse, but I had fun with it. Thanks for giving it a read!

* * *

**Melody**

He couldn't remember his mother anymore. No words, no face, barely even a voice. All he had was the faintest whispering of a melody that lingered at the cusp of consciousness as he drifted off to sleep. Some nights it was barely discernible; other nights, as he hovered at the edge of a dream, it came to him, clear and bittersweet and haunting. He knew it was her. He just didn't know why she was no longer around to sing to him. And when he awoke, she always felt both further away and closer to him than she had before.

* * *

**Depth**

Folks always said he was a chip off the old block, a spitting image of his father with his tall and lanky frame and his driven, restless energy. But both he and his father knew that the similarities ended there. He was more like his mother - serious, thoughtful and deep, more prone to ruminate on life than to grapple with it (unless circumstances left no other choice). His outward appearance told one story and his inner self a different one entirely, and it only took an astute observer to discern the truth: that some similarities were, in fact, only skin-deep.

* * *

**Steadfast**

His mother was the strongest person he knew. How she managed to press on when life threw obstacle after obstacle into her path amazed him, and though he never said so, he didn't think he'd be able to go on himself without the example of her determined fortitude. Her strength kept him going on the days when he could barely put one foot in front of the other. This was why he dropped in to surprise her whenever he could. She thought that he was doing it for her sake...but in reality, the visits were for him as well.

* * *

**Entangled**

He tried not to think about his ma. It was hard, though, when she found ways of forcing her way into his life on a regular if infrequent basis, hovering around like the cigar smoke that lingered on his clothes and in his hair long after he'd finished smoking. If she wasn't asking for money, she was griping to him about the landlord raising the rent or complaining of pain in some part of her body that had previously been just fine. He had little patience for her sob-stories, but sometimes wished he didn't have to be so curtly cold.

* * *

**Dreams**

Medda had been more of a mother to him than anyone, offering him shelter when he'd been homeless and food when he'd gone hungry and (maybe most importantly) a listening ear when he'd been downcast. She'd also given him a part-time job and the confidence that his dashes and dabs of paint were something beautiful. No one had ever told him that before. So he painted forests and mountains and skies full of stars, and he dreamed while he painted - dreamed of freedom and home and family under the care of the only mother he was likely to ever know.

* * *

**Home**

He was her entire world, her only remnant of a husband gone too soon, and when he left without a word, her heart was rent in two. She searched through alleyways and streets, crying and calling forth his name and praying that he was somehow safe and sound. Weeks passed; her boy did not return. But just as she was losing hope, he suddenly appeared, much worse for wear, with a prodigal's empty pockets and a runaway's weary eyes. He stammered an apology and hung his head, ashamed. "Don't fret, my son," she whispered tenderly. "I love you...welcome home."

* * *

**A/N:** If you're curious, the POV characters are, in order: Romeo, Davey, Henry, Race, Jack...and Patrick's mother from 92sies. :)


	8. (Remnant)

**Disclaimer**: This is a non-commercial work of...what is this, really? Is it technically fanfiction if there are no recognizable characters or situations from _Newsies_ even though the setting is implied to be in the _Newsies_ universe? That's probably a question for one of the higher ups. Anyway, original narrative, plot points, and characters are mine, I am not financially profiting from this story, and if you can manage to find a hint of anything canon, that, of course, belongs to Disney. :)

* * *

**No. 8**

**Title**: (Remnant)

**Summary**: "Sometimes the best matches come from the most unlikely pairs. You've got to find the person who's both your home and your adventure. _That's_ when you'll know you've found the right one."

**A/N**: This one-shot takes place about three years before the events of Something Worth Winning. OC-centric.

* * *

Walter Gorham had been operating his tailor shop on Chambers Street for nearly thirty-two years, and for nearly thirty-two years he'd kept the same schedule every day: arriving at 7:30 a.m. to settle in and get some work done, opening the store at half-past eight, and then working steadily until a quarter after noon. Following that, he would close up the shop and walk a few blocks down the street to eat his lunch at a small park. After dispatching of his meal, he would return to the little establishment on Chambers Street and then lose himself in his work for several more rotations of the clock until evening came, and it was time to close up for the night.

It was on just such an ordinary day that he found himself leaving the shop and heading down the street for his usual mid-day lunch al fresco.

The park he frequented wasn't a big one, just a grassy lawn with a short walking path that meandered beneath the overhanging branches of several tall trees. Benches had been situated here and there along the path, and Gorham was headed towards his favorite spot when he caught sight of something - or rather someone - perched among the branches of a large sugar maple tree.

Her apricot-colored skirt and brown hair blended in perfectly with the foliage, and if Gorham had been walking by in a hurry like many of those in Lower Manhattan who kept their eyes on the path ahead with their minds preoccupied and their thoughts elsewhere, he would have missed her altogether. But he was the kind of man who liked to watch the colors of the trees change in the Fall, so he _had_ been looking up - and spotted her quite easily.

Catching sight of him as he drew near, the girl smiled, looking not the least bit embarrassed at having been caught literally going out on a limb despite the fact that she was _clearly_ old enough to know that such things weren't exactly proper.

"Good morning!" she said. "Or perhaps it's nearly twelve o'clock now, and I ought to be bidding you 'good afternoon' instead."

"It's almost half past," Gorham replied.

"Really? Well, I suppose it's true what they say, then!" the girl declared cheerfully. "Time flies when you're having fun."

"Is that what you're up to?" Gorham asked, smiling in spite of himself. "You seem to have found yourself a good lookout spot."

"That's _precisely _what I'm up to," she replied. "I've been keeping an eye on my sister. She's over there - " and here she gestured towards another bench several hundred yards away, " - with her sweetheart. They walked all the way over here to get some privacy, but I thought it would be quite improper of me to let them go unescorted. _Someone_ has to make sure that there's no canoodling going on."

She said it rather seriously, but there was a twinkle in her eye that Gorham didn't miss.

"Do you think your sister will appreciate your, ah, intervention?" he asked.

"It's in her best interest," the girl replied (while also deftly sidestepping the question). "I don't think much of this beau of hers."

"How so?" Gorham queried as he took a seat on the bench beneath a tree next to the one she was currently occupying.

The girl pursed her lips for a moment. "Well," she began, "he's several years older than her, for one thing, and he's already been married once before. His first wife died of influenza, and apparently he was very devoted to her, which of course I deeply respect...but I just don't see how he can find it in his heart to begin courting someone else, much less to marry again! It seems like he would have already given all of his love to his first wife; they had two children together, after all, and he must be reminded constantly of her when he sees them."

"It's possible to love both those present and those who have passed on with equal devotion," Gorham observed mildly. "And perhaps this man's experience will make him a more tender and attentive husband to your sister, should she become his second wife."

"I hadn't thought of that." The girl fell silent for a moment, apparently trying to process this new perspective.

Gorham took advantage of the momentary lapse in conversation to unpack the lunch his wife Martha had prepared for him that morning. It was simple, just a sandwich and a piece of cornbread, but she always made it just the way he liked it.

"I suppose you may be right about John," the girl mused aloud, her voice floating down from the branches above. "He _does_ seem to be a conscientious suitor, so maybe there is something to be said for him being a seasoned admirer rather than an uninitiated one." She paused again, then declared, "I shall be more impartial in my observation of him going forward. Perhaps I was too quick to judge."

So saying, she climbed nimbly down from her perch, then dusted off her skirt and smoothed her hair. "There they go again," she said, inclining her head towards the couple who had risen from the bench and were now slowly making their way towards the street. "I'll have to take a shortcut home to make sure that I get back before they do!"

She smiled brightly at Gorham. "It was delightful to chat with you, Sir, and I thank you for the advice about John. Enjoy your lunch!"

And then she was off, hurrying in the direction opposite the one that the couple had gone while glancing over her shoulder from time to time to keep them in her sights. She made it to the street and crossed over without breaking stride (despite the fact that the avenue was rather busy), and in no time she had disappeared around the corner.

Gorham turned back to his lunch, shaking his head and smiling a little at her antics. _She certainly was a friendly one_, he thought, taking another bite of his sandwich.

* * *

He didn't see the girl again for several months. Perhaps she had come to the park again, and they'd simply missed each other, or perhaps her sister had caught on to her tailing and had found a more covert place to meet with her beau. At any rate, Gorham ate his lunches outside near the large sugar maple tree uninterrupted for quite some time, and after a few weeks had gone by, he nearly forgot about the incident and stopped expecting to see the girl, though he continued to look up as the leaves changed color and eventually began to fall.

Autumn turned to Winter, and Winter to Spring.

Then, one day, when the weather was balmy and the park was verdant with the colors of Spring, their paths crossed again, and Gorham saw a familiar figure perched in the sugar maple tree, peering through a pair of opera glasses. Upon catching sight of him, she gave a little wave. "Good afternoon!" she said cheerfully. "It's a lovely day!"

"Hello again," Gorham answered, taking his usual seat on the bench. "It _is_ a lovely day, and particularly clear, which must make your job much easier. More spying on your sister and her sweetheart?"

The girl nodded eagerly. "Only this time, I'm half-certain that he's going to propose!" She raised the theater binoculars again. "He came by earlier this week to speak to Papa in his office, and they were in conference for nearly an hour before John came out looking like he'd been given a million dollars. He didn't stay to chat with the rest of us, but I'm sure that he was asking Papa for Judith's hand; there's no other reason why they would have spoken so privately or for so long."

She fell silent, watching intently from her lookout, and Gorham turned his attention to unwrapping his lunch. It was only a sandwich that he'd made himself - Martha's illness had been getting worse, and Gorham had insisted that she stay in bed instead of getting up early to make his meal that morning. As he began eating, he mulled over the possibility of reducing his hours at the shop. Business was good, and he could probably afford to hire a part-time assistant, someone younger than him who could keep things running so that he would be more free to care for his wife when she needed it...

Before he had time to think through the matter any further, the girl in the tree spoke again.

"There! He's smiling at her now, and she looks positively thrilled at whatever it is he's saying, but I see no token, so he _can't_ have proposed already..."

"I take it, then, that the prospect of their union is less distasteful to you than it was the last time we talked?" Gorham ventured.

"Indeed," came her reply. "I thought over what you said for several days after, and upon endeavoring to give John a fair assessment, I found that you're likely right - he _is_ a kind and attentive man, and he does seem to love my sister as well as I could expect anyone to. I just hadn't the sense to see it at the time."

"The most important thing is that you see it now," Gorham said encouragingly. "It's a rare man - or woman - who will perceive everything right the first time around, but it's a _good_ man who's willing to change his way of thinking once he realizes that his first assessment was incorrect."

"Well, I'm a rather silly girl on the whole - that's what Mama tells me," his companion shrugged, "but I'd like to think I'm not so intractable that I'm unwilling to admit when I've erred in judgment." Her grip tightened on the branch that she was holding as she leaned forward, attempting to see better.

"Careful there, Miss," Gorham warned. "You'll take a nasty tumble if you fall from up that high."

"I'm trying to see what he's doing," she murmured, her eyes still trained on her opera glasses. But he noticed that she did adjust her position slightly so that she was more secure.

"He's only talking more," she declared after a moment, lowering the binoculars in disappointment. "I'm sure he must be getting close to asking her, and I wish that he would hurry up, but I suppose there are a number of things a man must say before he proposes."

She looked over at Gorham. "In the meantime, perhaps you might have another bit of insight to impart to me today," she smiled. "I confess that while I don't have any concerns that would _preclude_ John as a suitable husband for my sister, I don't quite understand why she'd want to be joined to him for the rest of her life when all is said and done. He _is_ a nice man, but rather serious on the whole, and though he seems agreeable enough, he isn't any fun - and I mean that in a completely objective way. I can't see why she'd want to settle for him when she's had other men call on her who were far more assertive and dashing."

The statement - rather superficial in its tenor - was accompanied by a look of gravity that Gorham found slightly amusing. "I take it that you plan to be much more discriminating when it comes time to choose your own life partner?" he asked, trying to keep a straight face.

"Naturally!" the girl replied. "I know a lady can't necessarily control who will come a-calling, but I don't plan on marrying a _serious_ man if I have anything to say about it. I'd much prefer someone who's daring and passionate, not someone who will want to spend all of our time thinking and ruminating and above all being _sensible_. There'd be no adventure in that."

"Sometimes the best matches come from the most unlikely pairs," Gorham remarked, thinking about his own dear wife. "A little difference of temperament is good. And the married life has both excitement and peril enough without you having to go look for it." He paused for a moment, then added thoughtfully, "You've got to find the person who's both your home _and_ your adventure. That's when you'll know you've found the right one."

"What do you mean?" the girl asked curiously.

"I mean, the right person is going to stretch you, challenge you, make you think about things from a different point of view. It'll be thrilling and intimidating and frustrating at times, but it'll be worth it. They'll be an adventure, because getting to know them will be unlike anything you've ever done before. But they'll be home, too - someone who will make you feel safe, who will hold your tears and your dreams, who will be your comfort in times of sorrow and the first one to share in your joy." He gave the girl a smile. "Someone who will see you for who you really are...and who will love you _because_ of and _in spite of_ it, more dearly than they love themselves. _That_ person is your home and your adventure."

"You sound like you speak from experience," she observed.

"My wife Martha and I are about as different as fire and ice," Gorham admitted. "But my life would be terribly cold without her. We didn't get along at all when we first met, but over time, as I got to know her better, I realized what a special woman she was, and I decided that I wanted to have her by my side for as long as I could - if she'd have me." He smiled fondly at the memories. "We married young and had a decade and a half of blissful, easy life together. And then she got sick. Things got harder from there...but we managed to pull through, despite the dashed dreams and the deferred plans, and I can easily say that I love her more now than I did before. She's my home, and my adventure."

"She sounds like a lovely woman," the girl said softly, looking pensive, "though I'm sorry to hear of her illness. She must have a great deal of fortitude to endure it."

Gorham nodded. "She does. And she has spells every once in a while where the pain isn't so bad, so we try to make the best of those opportunities."

"One day at a time," the girl agreed, and Gorham was struck by the aptness of the statement, for it sounded as though she understood.

"In any case, you've once again given me much to think about," the girl declared, lightheartedness returning almost immediately to her voice. "You were certainly right the last time we spoke, so I'll need to take this new admonition under consideration - both as it pertains to my sister, and for myself, I suppose." She glanced in the direction of the couple she was perusing and added, "Now that I think about it, Judith _can_ be humorless enough if she tries, and above all she _is_ pragmatically-minded, so I suppose in that way it's a good match, and perhaps John _is_ her home and her adventure after all."

"You don't sound completely sold on the idea."

"I'm willing to own that her preferences may be different than mine, and I can certainly see the wisdom in what you're saying regarding the benefits of having a life partner whose disposition is different than your own," the girl clarified diplomatically. She paused, then added impulsively, "I just hope that the one who ends up being _my _home and my adventure is more dashing and debonair than John - though that's not something I need to worry about at the present. I'm only fourteen."

Her candid naivete was an odd complement next to the adult-like sobriety of her earlier statement, but Gorham found the combination to be slightly endearing.

"Oh, I think he's done it!" the girl suddenly exclaimed, her eyes fixed on the opera glasses. "She's smiling - and crying, too! - and he's handing her something - I can't see what it is…but now he's got his arm around her, and they're kissing! She'd never let him do that if he hadn't proposed, so he must have done it!"

"You'd better get down from that tree, Miss, or you're liable to fall," Gorham warned, concerned that her enthusiasm would cause her to momentarily forget her own safety. "It would put quite a damper on your sister's happiness if you were to injure yourself."

"You're right," the girl agreed, quickly clambering down as she abandoned her perch. "Besides, now is not the time for hiding - now's the time for celebration!" She smiled, giving Gorham a little nod. "It was pleasant chatting with you, Sir, and I hope that we shall cross paths again soon. Do give my regards to your wife!"

And before Gorham could say anything in reply, she scurried off, running as fast as she could across the field in the direction of her sister, calling out her congratulations as she went.

* * *

It was Autumn again when he saw her next.

This time, she was not sitting in the tree, but on the bench below it, looking rather somber and much older with her hair done up underneath a hat and her hands clasped properly in front of her. He would have almost thought that she was a different girl entirely, if it had not been for the slightly-impish smile that she gave him when she saw him approach.

"Good afternoon," she greeted him as he took a seat on the bench next to hers. "It's been quite some time since we've spoken. I hope that your wife is well."

"Martha's been doing a little better," he answered, touched that the girl would remember after all these months. "She has her good days and her bad ones, but she's a fighter."

The thought crossed his mind again that he really ought to think about hiring an assistant. He'd put it off, not wanting to go through the trouble of finding someone suitable, but with the Winter months coming and Martha more prone to difficult spells during the cold, he ought to give some serious thought to it.

"What about your sister?" he asked, setting the thought aside for the moment. "Is she happily married now, or will it be a long engagement?"

"She and John will be married in the Spring," the girl answered. "He's taken a new job in Boston, so he and his sons have already secured a place there, and Judith will join them once the wedding has taken place."

"You look like you've just come from a fancy occasion yourself," Gorham remarked.

"My family dined at Delmonico's for lunch," she disclosed. "My younger sister and I both have birthdays this month, and since Judith won't be here to celebrate with us next year, our parents thought it would be a worthy occasion to splurge."

"For a birthday girl, you don't sound too happy."

She gave him a small smile. "I know that I still have months with my sister before she leaves for Boston, and that it's silly to be mourning her absence so far in advance, but I confess that I'm missing her already. The engagement was so exciting, and planning for the wedding has been equally delightful - I'm already sewing the keenest-looking tablecloth and napkins and a matching apron for Judith's trousseau - but today at lunch was the first time that reality set in, and I realized that once the wedding is over, we'll be left with the ache of her absence. Once she's gone, she won't be coming back to live with us...ever again."

"I'm sure she'll find a way to visit on occasion," Gorham remarked, trying to console her. "Boston's not that far away."

"But it won't be the same," the girl said softly. "Not like having her home." She brushed at her skirt, adding wistfully, "Judith's the one who holds everything together in our family - she's Mama's right hand, and the peacemaker between my youngest sister and I. I know I need to grow up and take her place now that she's leaving...but I'm not sure if I'm ready for it. I'm not particularly patient or wise, and I'm a terrible nuisance in the kitchen and not particularly adept at helping my youngest sister. My only superior quality is that of my needlework - Ju's stitching was never as neat or as even as mine - but that's hardly enough to offset my many other deficiencies."

"I'm sure you'll get along fine," Gorham said soothingly. "Most folks are capable of a lot more than they think - they just don't realize it until an opportunity comes for them to show it."

"Well...I hope you're right," the girl replied pensively. "I confess that I've always felt somewhat superfluous in my family, like an unnecessary little bit - a remnant, if you will." She looked away, and he could hear the touch of sadness in her voice as she added, "My other sisters have obvious talents and abilities. It's easy to see what role they fill in the family, and what their purpose is. I don't seem to have much of a knack for anything. But now that we're losing Judith, I'll have to find a way to make up for her absence somehow, even if I lack the temperament or the skills necessary to truly fill her shoes. Maybe this is my opportunity to prove myself, as you've suggested." She faced him again, smiling hesitantly, and Gorham could tell that she was trying very hard to be brave.

"Perhaps our chance meetings here have been providential, Sir," the girl remarked. "You've certainly had words of wisdom for me that have been most fitting to each occasion. I only wish that I had anything useful to offer you in return."

"Perhaps you do," Gorham remarked, the idea striking him out of the blue. "You mentioned that you're good with a needle and thread?"

"Good enough," the girl answered. "I've been sewing since I was seven years old."

"I'd like to see a few of your pieces sometime," Gorham suggested. "I happen to be a tailor, and I own a shop near the corner of Chambers and Church. I've been contemplating the possibility of hiring an assistant to help me at the shop, so if you're looking for a few hours of work after school and your parents would be agreeable to it, perhaps we might work something out. It would give you a chance to earn some money and to hone your abilities, and perhaps you'd find a little bit of purpose in it, too."

The girl's eyes lit up. "Do you really mean it?" she asked.

Gorham nodded. "Ask your parents, and if they're amenable, you can stop by the shop sometime next week, and we'll discuss the details. Bring a few of your pieces, too, so I can get an idea of what you're capable of."

"Thank you, Sir - I will!" The girl bounced up from the bench. "If you don't mind, I'll hurry along now to tell them the news. I'd asked to stop by the park after lunch so that I could have some time alone to sort out my thoughts, but this was a far greater outcome to that detour than I could have ever hoped for!"

"I'm glad to hear that the prospect pleases you so much," Gorham answered, returning the smile. "And by the way, I'm Walter Gorham." He extended his hand.

"Sadie Becker." The girl shook it enthusiastically. "It's a pleasure to officially meet you, Mr. Gorham! Thank you again for your generous offer. My parents will be so pleased."

"Well, you run along now and discuss it with them," Gorham said indulgently. "I'll look for you sometime next week at the shop. We're open from eight-thirty to five, but if I'm not there around noontime, you know where to find me."

"I'll head right this way if I happen to miss you," the girl responded, catching his meaning. Still smiling, she gave him a little nod. "I do hope you have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Gorham. Thank you again. Until next week!"

"Until next week, Sadie."

And then she was off, a spring in her step and the ribbon of her hat flickering jauntily in farewell.

Gorham watched her go until she was lost from sight, then turned back to his lunch, slowly unwrapping his sandwich and smiling a little as his eyes were drawn upwards towards the gently rustling leaves of the large sugar maple tree.

* * *

**A/N**: I hope you enjoyed this glimpse of young!Sadie in her pre-SWW days when her life was a little simpler and she still thought that boys who were sensible weren't any fun ;). Thanks for reading - I'd love to hear what you thought of this!


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